


With Great Power

by Iambic



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur takes a midnight ride, and Merlin learns about great responsibility, and consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Great Power

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the last episode of series one; I've not seen series two, so I have no idea if this is still plausible.

Merlin wakes to the sound of someone whispering his name, like a breath of wind, half a dream. He wonders what the dragon wants this time for only a fraction of a second, before he wakes up enough to hear the difference. This is not the impatient, amused voice of the dragon in his ears. This is something different. Someone else.

He thinks back to the druid child – Mordred, Arthur said his name was – but no, this voice is different. Not quite so young. Not quite so imploring.

Merlin sits up and dresses against the cold, and only by chance glances out the window. His eyes skid over something red, but then he looks back and stares at Arthur's retreating back, cloak swishing behind him as his horse bears him sedately away into the night. Merlin watches in bewilderment for a moment, and then returns to his dressing, finally pulling boots on and quietly exiting his room, tiptoeing through Gaius' herbal.

He doesn't begin to question his actions until he's leading his borrowed horse past magically distracted guards, in the direction Arthur took. Really, whatever Arthur's doing at this time of night is none of Merlin's concern – except it sort of is, at least according to the dragon. And past experience. Arthur hasn't shown signs of having gone on secret midnight rides before, so whatever prompted this one probably doesn't bode well for Arthur. Or Camelot. And if Arthur rides into a potentially dangerous situation, he'll need his trusty magical manservant along to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid like trying to fight a full-grown sorcerer with ordinary weapons.

At the city gates, Merlin mounts his borrowed steed and sets off at a trot. He never saw which direction Arthur took, but he can tell which way to go, anyway. Ever since defeating Nimueh on the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin feels more in touch with his magic. He almost never has to repeat spells, now, and often doesn't need to speak them at all. He can – probably – take on anyone who threatens Arthur.

He wonders if he should feel guilt for his willingness to kill his own kind. He wonders if he should fear the strength of his magic, the sudden growth of his ability.

He rides on in silence, silence of his thoughts as well as his tongue. Tomorrow, he can worry about morality. Tonight, he has to find Arthur.

\--

He finds Arthur.

Or to be more exact: a suspiciously sudden storm picks up as Merlin guides his horse along the edge of a small gully, and the borrowed mount panics and throws him before fleeing the wind and electricity. Merlin falls, hits two trees on the way down, and lands in a heap near a river. Across the river, Arthur is still riding his horse at a slow, purposeful walk. Merlin hauls himself to his feet with the help of one of the trees that caught him, rubs at his bark-scratched and bleeding face and arms and sides, and takes off after his prince.

He finds following Arthur to be fairly easy, so long as he keeps up a steady jog. But something isn't right; surely Arthur should have noticed the presence of another by now. Even over the storm. And it may be a trick of the absent light, but Arthur's face looks slack, unfocused; his arms seem to loll at his sides, his posture soft. As if he's not really there at all.

A spell, then. Or Arthur is sleepwalking. The first option seems infinitely more likely.

Merlin eyes the river, then heaves a great sigh and wades across. The water only rises to his thighs, and he would have got soaked anyway, from the rain. It's not so bad, really. But he's shivering when he reaches the other side, colder than he's felt for a long time. It doesn't matter; he's got more important things to worry about. Like Arthur, who is only a short distance away but steadily moving forward. As soon as he can, Merlin shakes off his shivering and sprints after his prince, closing the distance between them as quickly as his tired legs will let him.

"Arthur," he says, though he knows the effort is futile. "Arthur!" he repeats, and tugs on Arthur's leg, his wrist. Neither Arthur nor his horse seem to notice. So Merlin hangs on and runs alongside, ignoring the cold and the burning that grows in his side as best he can. There's not much else he can do yet.

He skims through the book of magic in his head, but he can't seem to recall any spells for the breaking of enchantments. He could do it without spells, but not without knowing what has happened to Arthur.

\--

Eventually they come to the end of the gully, and the road turns sharply away from where the river pours down a steep cliff. Merlin's feet have grown numb, as well as his fingers and ears and nose, but his legs ache and the lacerations beneath his torn shirt sting and burn against the icy rain. He feels himself stumble, but can't avoid the inevitable fall, only barely managing to disentangle himself from Arthur's reins and wrist as he hits the mud and rock.

He lies in the road for a few precious seconds before forcing himself to his feet again, chasing after Arthur. When he catches up, he takes only a few moments to formulate a new strategy. He takes considerably more time to drag his uncooperative body into the saddle, in front of Arthur. But eventually he manages the feat, and though Arthur does not seem to notice, and his horse refuses to respond to direction, both are warm. Merlin promises himself that no one will ever know before leaning ever so slightly backwards, resting against Arthur's unfairly warm chest. No armour, which should be more worrying than Merlin currently finds it to be.

"I could get used to this kind of travel," Merlin murmurs to the storm, and lets someone else do the work for a change.

\--

The storm continues into the morning, and when Merlin wakes from the doze he accidentally slipped into, the light around them has increased. But the storm still lashes against them, still keeps Merlin soaked and freezing, except where he leans against Arthur. He brushes rain from his eyes and his forehead and looks around; they are currently riding through a series of low, grassy hills, passing the occasional tree. He's still covered in mud, though it has washed off in some places. Arthur still won't respond to anything – not words, nor sharp elbow-jabs or the rain that has followed them all this way.

"You're just as annoying like this," Merlin assures him, because it beats the alternative, which is panicking. Merlin's good at panicking, but now is not really the time to play to his strengths.

He keeps talking to Arthur, complaining about the weather and the mystery of their destination and the insufferable silence. Eventually, when he runs out of things to complain about, he changes the subject to all the things he plans to do when they return to Camelot. He has quite a long list – not that he has any illusions about the likelihood of getting many of them done, but he lives in hope. Besides, Arthur will owe him for all that following on foot. And the rain. And the falling down cliffs and wading through rivers and –

"I think I've been through this bit already," Merlin cuts himself off, and shuts up for a while.

Hours or minutes later, he speaks again. "One of these days, I'm not going to wake up in time to catch up, or I'm going fall off the wrong part of the cliff, or just meet my match. Then where will you be?" Behind him, Arthur as ever makes no response. Merlin snorts, softly. "This whole saving your life thing is really unrewarding. Every time I succeed, I have to do it all over again. And then other people get drawn in, and that's really the part I don't like. I mean, I've volunteered to die for you. A lot, actually. They never did. Gaius, my mother… they never volunteered. Nimueh never volunteered, though I'm glad she ended up dying for you."

He considers that last statement, and shakes his head. "Maybe 'glad' is the wrong word. I'd rather it be her than someone else. Someone who isn't trying to kill you."

After another moment, he adds, "Not that it matters. I've got to keep you alive, no matter the cost. So I'm not the only one who's going to make sacrifices for you. And I think I have to keep myself around, too, so I can keep saving you."

He directs a scowl behind him, at Arthur's expressionless face. "You're far too much trouble, sire," Merlin grumbles.

\--

In the afternoon, judging by how hungry Merlin has grown, they reach higher hills, and eventually begin climbing what really cannot be called anything but a small mountain. The storm eases, though shows no sign of stopping entirely. Merlin, unused to riding so long, aches all over. From time to time he sneezes. Arthur makes no sound or motion at all, and his lungs expand clearly, as far as Merlin can hear.

Merlin wipes his running nose on Arthur's sodden brown coat and resents him bitterly.

They keep climbing as the sky darkens and Merlin's stomach growls desperately. Eventually he manages to doze off again, but wakes easily each time, from dreams of chasing or fleeing through mazes of rock and mist. When he finally achieves a deeper sleep, it is only to gasp awake when, in the centre of this rocky maze, he discovers Arthur lying immersed in a still pool of water. He reaches into the frigid liquid and feels his arm turn to glass, but still he reaches, and the glass spreads, across his shoulders and down his back and across his face, and when he opens his mouth to cry out his lips and tongue and throat turn to glass as well, and then he jolts awake and hits his head on Arthur's chin.

Then he realises they have stopped at the edge of a crater lake. In the centre Merlin can see a small island, and a stone building of some kind. He is reminded of the Isle of the Blessed and shudders, though that may be the cold. But no boat materialises, and so because Merlin knows nowhere else to go to learn the nature of Arthur's affliction, he tumbles to the ground and then drags Arthur from the saddle. With the last of his energy, Merlin freezes a path from shore to island, and then Arthur stands and strides across it without a backwards glance. Merlin, nearly fainting, stumbles along behind.

When he reaches the other side he collapses with his bridge, and nearly stays there but for the sudden scent of cooking that fills his nostrils. For the fourth time, he picks himself up off the ground, and hurries into the building.

Torches burn along the wall, stationed fairly regularly and casting more than enough light for Merlin's darkness-adjusted eyes to see by. The scent of food energises him, giving him that last jolt of energy he needs to make it through the hallway and stagger into a large, fire-lit room. A long table, laden with food, takes up one half. A large altar, situated around a taller fire, occupies the other. Arthur stands between the two and does not move.

"We meet again, Emrys," says a familiar voice, and Merlin whirls to face Nimueh.

"You're dead," he says, flatly. "I've been traveling through cold and wet with no food for more than a day. I'm hallucinating."

"It takes more than your summoned lightning to kill one of us, Emrys," she replies. "More than that by far."

Merlin clenches his fists, opens them; he feels as if he'll collapse where he stands if he even attempts to try his magic. If he even attempts to move. "What have you done to Arthur?" he demands instead, and pretends he's not about to fall over.

"Will you never learn?" Nimueh replies. "This magic is beyond even me. But there is time for that – come, sit down. Sup with me, Emrys." Her tone teases, and she smiles ever so slightly as she takes Merlin by the arm, guiding him to the table. "You must be hungry."

Though he would like nothing better than to wrench himself from her grip, speak sharply, he knows he lacks the energy. Merlin complies, instead, letting Nimueh guide him to a chair at the table, allowing her to fill his plate and his goblet and then sit opposite him, eyes and smile glinting sharp and amused. He eats as she watches, and the food tastes delicious, worthy of Uther Pendragon's table, perhaps even better than usual Camelot fare. Neither speak until his plate has been cleared.

Merlin almost goes to reach for more, but then catches sight of Arthur, still standing in the center of the room, facing away from the table. Suddenly he feels less interested in food.

"Nimueh," he says, pushing his chair back but not yet standing up. "What's wrong with Arthur?"

Nimueh's smile widens, and she hesitates dramatically, as if she knows how this will irritate Merlin. "The Old Religion demands a price paid," she replies. "A life taken for a life granted. You attempted to pay with mine, but as I did not die… the price remains unpaid, and Arthur's life forfeit."

Arthur took a step forward, toward the altar. Merlin surged up from his seat, chair clattering to the floor. "No!"

But Nimueh, still smiling, waved a hand and ceased Arthur's motion. "What can you do to change this, Emrys? Even I cannot dictate the terms of the Old Religion. And neither you nor I may give our lives, however willingly, to save him. No matter how much true sorcerer's blood is shed in the Pendragon name." Her smile turns wry, and for a moment she looks human, approachable. "Though you did come closer than Uther Pendragon to such a feat."

"What?" Merlin asks, thrown from his growing panic. "What does Uther have to do with – with –"

"You are hardly the first to give Arthur life through another's sacrifice," Nimueh replies. "And neither are you the first not to realise the price you would pay. Uther could not have his revenge against me, and so he turned his rage upon all magic. What would you have done, without the power to strike me down as you did?"

Merlin's hands clench to fists again, and this time they remain. He doesn't know the answer, doesn't want to know. Gaius' death would break his heart. Arthur's is simply unthinkable.

"So you've brought him here to die," he says instead, gritting his teeth. "And you called me here to watch. And you're telling me there's nothing I can do."

"Oh, but there is." Nimueh rises from her chair much more gracefully, placing both hands on the table. "You are under the mistaken impression that I bear you ill will," she adds. "I have called you here only to help. In fact, I am giving you an opportunity you otherwise never should have had."

"A – what?" Merlin asks, feeling uncertainty sag his shoulders, relax his fingers.

"A choice," Nimueh clarifies. "Once more, an opportunity to trade another life for Arthur's. Life for life, Emrys, but this time you know the choices you cannot make." She leans forward, hair miraculously avoiding the meat's sauce and a nearby candle. "Shall I tell you your options? There is Hunith, your mother who would die to see her son happy. Gwen, your friend who thinks the world of you; and Morgana, who thinks you know of the world. There is Gaius, who willingly gave his life so that you would not have to. There is Uther, who would see you dead should you misstep within his realm."

Merlin felt his eyes widen, his jaw fall open, his muscles freeze. He almost protests that he cannot kill any of them, cannot murder a friend or an overlord, but thinks better of it. Nimueh, he knows, always means what she says. And she has no reason to lie about this.

"I gave you a gift, the first chance," Nimueh adds. "The gift of blame. I chose who would die so that you would not be forced to." The smile never falls from her face, but somehow the teasing note in it vanishes. "As you have proven ungrateful, I have retracted this gift. Choose wisely, Emrys. Kill consciously."

"No," Merlin whispers hoarsely, and he pushes away from the table, stumbles blindly into the middle of the room. He lurches around to face Arthur, and stands before his bewitched prince for long minutes, gazing into unseeing eyes as blank as his mind. "Arthur," he says, and his voice sounds choked and distant in his ears. He thinks of killing Uther, and hears the dragon in his head roar victory. He considers Gwen for but a second, though that second will haunt him for a long time to come. In desperation he turns back to Nimueh, but her face is stone, giving nothing away free.

He thinks, I volunteered to die. I gave my life. No one should die for Arthur but me. No one should die for me at all. And then he knows what he must do.

"I've made my choice," he says, and sinks to the floor in exhaustion and bitter, bitter defeat. He does not stand up again, this time.

\--

He wakes up cold and damp to see stars overhead. When he sits up, he sees the lights of Camelot, just downhill. Beside him lies Arthur, not entranced but asleep, and Merlin has to take his pulse just to make sure that he's still breathing. He doesn't need to let his hand linger at the side of Arthur's jaw, or brush against Arthur's mouth when he finally pulls it away, but these are liberties he takes because he can.

"Arthur," he says to the night and the stars and the wet grass beneath him and the sleeping prince beside him. And "Arthur," he says again, more urgent, more desperate.

"Ngh," says Arthur, opening bleary eyes to blink up at Merlin.

"Wake up," Merlin tells him. "We need to go home."

"I give the orders," Arthur retorts, but he sits up. Merlin notices then the horse behind them, grazing peacefully as if nothing has happened at all but a brisk walk through the night, after the rain stopped. Arthur sees it too, and frowns for a moment as if confused as to how it got there. But then his face clears; he stands and walks to it, and waves Merlin over. "Get on," he orders, offering a hand up.

"I can mount a horse," Merlin grumbles. He neglects to mention the part about rain and mud and clambering up because he lacked other options. Instead, he demonstrates his horse-mounting abilities, and Arthur rolls his eyes and swings into place much more gracefully after him.

"You lack style, Merlin," Arthur observes.

Who needs style when you command the elements and life and death itself, he doesn't say, but his throat catches and adrenaline surges and he freezes, hit by the realisation of what he has done. His hand tightens around the saddle horn; he stiffens against Arthur's arms, holding the reins on either side of him. "We need to go," he says, and perhaps Arthur notices that something's wrong, because for once he doesn't argue.

They rush past green slopes and blooming trees, down the road to Camelot. At the gate, startled guards allow them entrance; then they clatter through empty streets, to the castle itself. Merlin dismounts and hurries away before he can be charged with stabling the horse. He pretends not to hear Arthur calling after him.

Gaius' rooms are lit yet, and Merlin staggers through the door with the last of Nimueh's lent strength. "Gaius," he calls, "I'm home, are you awake?"

Gaius is not awake; he lies on his movable bed, and Merlin is reminded of the day he first came to Camelot, and saved his mentor from a fall with that very mattress. The irony of the situation does not escape him as he sinks to his knees beside Gaius and rests a hesitant hand against the old man's neck. There is no pulse.

"Gaius," he chokes out, and it's the Island of the Blessed all over again but worse, because there is no return this time, and Merlin is to blame. Merlin cannot rage against blind chance or destiny when his hand selected the life to be traded for Arthur's. He sinks down, leaning his head on his mentor's cooling chest, and does not cry. Does not say another word for a long time.

\--

Predictably Arthur is the one to find him there, much later in the night. Merlin feels hands at his shoulders and yields because he has no energy with which to argue. He stares up at Arthur's worried face and feels the tables have turned; it's his turn to move purposefully under the thrall of magic more powerful than his own, while Arthur watches in bewilderment.

"What happened, Merlin?" Arthur asks, but Merlin can't say it, can't do anything but stare helplessly up at the reason for everything. He can't even find it in him to grow angry, to resent Arthur even the slightest. He can't do anything at all.

Arthur catches on, though. He sees and misinterprets the helplessness in Merlin's face and shoulders, the boneless exhaustion that weighs down his back and his neck. Arthur feels for a pulse himself, and then without releasing Merlin's shoulder, pulls the blanket over Gaius' face.

"Come back with me," he says, more gently than Merlin could ever have imagined before. Merlin, glad to let someone else make the choices now, allows Arthur to pull him to his feet and pull him away from the bed, out the door, across the courtyard. He almost falls asleep as they walk, waking briefly when Arthur pushes him down onto his own bed and finally dropping into proper slumber as Arthur steps away.


End file.
